Deadly Politics

by LynDee Walker

  He rested his right arm along the back of the seat on the other side of the glass. Sighed. Dropped his chin to his chest.

  “The governor says you’re lying.” The words tumbled into his lap so fast and soft I wasn’t sure I was supposed to hear them.

  “Yet something is telling me you don’t believe that.” I snapped my mouth shut. Silence is a good tool when someone is conflicted.

  “I wasn’t there Friday. Not even his personal detail was allowed in the office. Listen, I never wanted any part of politics.” He lifted his head. “I have to take you in. It was made very clear to me this morning that my job depends on it. But no, this isn’t me. This isn’t supposed to be the function of this organization.”

  His shoulders fell, his whole broad chest deflating with a long exhale. “Look. I don’t know exactly what you put yourself in the middle of here, and to be honest I don’t really want to know. But whatever it is, you’ve got people flipping the fuck out. Important people. People who pull the governor’s strings.”

  Hitting the “Lock” button on his door, he put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road. “No need to bring a rookie along for the ride.”

  He wasn’t talking to me.

  But the words sent ice shooting all the way to my core.

  I reached for my bag.

  Pulled out my phone.

  Clicked the text messages.

  Kyle. Joey. Aaron. Bob.

  I closed my fingers tight around the plastic.

  Charlie. Dan.

  In the back of a state patrol car, subpoena from the AG citing matters involving state secrets. Commander who’s driving seems reluctant to take me in. Scared, even. I’ll take the questioning, I deserve it. But this guy is making me nervous.

  Back. New message. Mom.

  You are amazing and brilliant, and I love you. So proud to have you for my mom. It wouldn’t alarm her to see that—I get mushy where she’s concerned pretty easily, and . . . well, bases covered. Hopefully the first message would keep the second from being more than a smile in her Sunday morning.

  I hit “Send” as Davis turned into a back lot at the capitol building and stopped at security.

  I tapped my email open. Come on, Angela. I swiped down.

  No new messages. Damn.

  Davis opened the door to my right as I dropped my phone back into my bag.

  I stood, tipping my head back to look up at the stark white stone against the clear cornflower fall sky.

  These folks were awfully intent on keeping their secrets.

  I walked in front of Commander Davis to the door, where another uniformed officer took my bag and placed it on a shelf behind the metal detectors and X-ray machine without scanning it.

  “You’ll get it back when you leave.” The words were clipped as he waved me through the metal detector.

  I nodded. Stepping through the thing, which seemed like some sort of portal to an alternate dimension, I felt another chill.

  These people were supposed to be the good guys.

  Which left me wondering who, exactly, the bad guy was here.

  Wesley Cameron’s office looked a lot like Wesley Cameron himself: proper, bright, and understated.

  Three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were lined with thick leather-wrapped legal tomes. The lone drywall surface, a soft ecru color, was dotted with ornately framed diplomas and certificates. A credenza along the awards wall held framed photos of Wesley with every visiting dignitary from the president to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. I studied them, Commander Davis watching from the doorway.

  “Feel free to have a seat,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be up momentarily.”

  “I’m good, thank you.” I didn’t turn around.

  The guy smiling out of these photos didn’t look like he had it in him to kill anyone.

  But could he order it?

  No idea.

  Which had me so unnerved I couldn’t tell if my hands were trembling from that or the anger I was trying to keep from directing at the cop guarding the door.

  I closed my teeth around the inside of my jaw and crossed a few feet of thick goldenrod carpet to the bookshelf.

  Copies of the Code of Virginia from every year back to 1946 on the middle shelf.

  Up one higher, a thin layer of dust lined the front of the shelf, which held fat books on everything from tax law to real estate regulations. Perusing the titles, I noticed a drag mark in the dust and looked up at that book.

  Executive Power and Privilege: Checks and Balances for State Legal Systems.

  Awesome.

  So he might be trying to figure out how to limit the governor’s power.

  Or how to make me shut up for good.

  Before I had time to consider that enough for the sour bubble of terror to crawl all the way up the back of my throat, the door clicked open.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Cameron, starched and buttoned up in a navy pinstripe suit, walked to the desk without offering a hand.

  I strode to the chair opposite him and put mine out. “I’m more than a little confused about why I’m here, Mr. Cameron. But it’s nice to meet you.”

  He met my eyes and reached for my hand in inching degrees, his gaze flickering between my face and the bookshelves on either side of us. “Thank you for coming in on a Sunday.” His hand was cold and damp, almost slimy feeling, when it closed lightly around mine. I fought the urge to draw back, my eyes going to the door, where Commander Davis had just disappeared.

  “I wasn’t made aware that I had a choice in the matter.”

  He pulled his hand back and sank into his big leather chair, gesturing to the one behind me.

  “You’ve put us in a very unusual situation,” he said, folding his hands on the blotter.

  I leaned back in my chair, forcing my shoulders to relax and opening my arms. Nothing to hide here. Which was true. It was the “cool as a pitcher of cucumber water” part I was faking for all I was worth.

  “It seems to me that whoever killed Lakshmi Drake put you in a very unusual situation,” I said.

  He plucked a pen from the marble holder next to his clock and rolled it back and forth between his long fingers. “And therein lies the problem. Miss Drake is alive and well, as the governor told Charlie Lewis this morning. And as her father will tell Charlie Lewis at five o’clock.” He held my gaze through the whole spiel, watching my face go slack.

  “You have been played, Miss Clarke, and we need to know by whom. It’s a matter of high urgency. Who told you that Miss Drake was the deceased found in the building yesterday?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir. But I do have a question for you: If Lakshmi wasn’t the victim yesterday, who was? And why on earth would the governor or her father need to talk to Charlie—why not just have Lakshmi sit for the interview herself?”

  I blinked, letting out a slow breath that kept my nerves from showing.

  The backs of my eyelids played Nichelle and Kyle’s greatest hits, from a gangly boy with slightly long hair shuffling his feet and handing me a bouquet of daisies in my mom’s foyer, to the night I lost my virginity, to him showing up in a warehouse in Shockoe Bottom, to Friday morning . . . and yesterday afternoon.

  Kyle would’ve seriously cut out his own tongue before he’d lie to me. Until this guy marched Lakshmi into a room where I could see her speak and hear her laugh, he was the liar, not Kyle. And I damned sure wasn’t throwing a friend under a runaway political bus on the threats and assertions of a stranger.

  I sat up straighter in the chair.

  Cameron did likewise. “Someone is lying to you,” he said. “You do realize the governor could sue you for libel?”

  I sucked a deep breath through my nose to keep my voice even, his dodge of my simple question not lost on me. Anger and fear were not my friends here, though.

  “Mr. Cameron, no disrespect, but people lie to me almost every day. This presents the rare instance when I�
�m not quite sure who is lying about what, and I’m dealing with people who use lies as their stock in trade,” I said. “As for a libel suit, well, best of luck with that. My story said nothing about Governor Baine being a suspect or connected to the victim or her death in any way.”

  “You said there was a dead prostitute in the governor’s office.” He shook his head. “If that’s not political warfare, I’m not sure what is.”

  “We’ll have to let a judge decide that, I suppose,” I said.

  He sighed. Planted both hands flat on the edge of the desk and stood, leaning forward. “I’m not sure you understand the stakes of the game you’ve wandered into here, so let me explain: Someone is out to ruin Governor Baine. Not just his career, him as a human being. And they pegged you as an effective vehicle for that. Rightly so, it seems. I’m not going to let that happen.” His face contorted into an ugly, borderline cartoonish mask flooded with ruddy color from his hairline to his bright-white collar. His voice dropped two full octaves as he spoke, coming out in almost a growl. “You will either tell me where you got that tip, or you won’t tell anyone anything for a very long time.”

  My heart took off to the races. I closed my fingers around the smooth, cool polished wood of the chair arms, scooting back in the seat.

  Raising my chin, I forced my mouth to make words. “I won’t betray a source.”

  He reached into a drawer behind the desk.

  I threw myself backward so hard I toppled the chair, my head bouncing off the thick carpet, the wind rushing out of my chest with the impact.

  I wriggled, my sweater sticking my shoulders to the carpet and my hips and legs still bent around the C-shaped chair, flailing in midair.

  I was stuck. As good as a turtle on its back in the mud.

  Cameron charged around the corner of the desk, and I threw my hands up like it would do any good, my eyes pinching shut and refusing to open.

  I’d been in some dangerous situations, and more than anyone’s share of ridiculous ones, too. But to have it all end here, in cold blood on ugly carpet because I was stuck in a stupidly designed chair . . . Kyle better be telling the truth. And he’d better get whatever he was after when he pulled me into this bullshit, too.

  25

  The door rattled in its frame, someone pounding it half-down from outside.

  “What?” Cameron roared.

  I forced one eye open enough to see him stomping away from me. It didn’t appear he had a weapon.

  I rocked side to side, trying to turn the chair. No dice.

  Fine. Throwing my knees toward my nose as hard as I could, I flipped backward out of the seat, the momentum carrying me until I ended up on my knees in an awkward heap, my ball cap askew, hair half-falling out of my ponytail and covering my eyes.

  I shot to my feet, backing up to the credenza as I swiped at my face.

  Cameron’s hands were indeed empty. My eyes flicked to the desk. Nothing there, either.

  Breathe.

  Cameron jerked the door inward.

  Commander Davis.

  Had he been standing outside the entire time?

  “I thought I was clear that you were dismissed for the day,” Cameron said.

  “Sir, Dan Kessler from WRVA is down at security.” Commander Davis looked over Cameron’s shoulder, his eyes finding mine with a nod so tiny I couldn’t swear I didn’t imagine it. “He says he knows Miss Clarke is here and he’d like to speak to someone about what she’s being charged with, or when she’ll be ready to go.”

  Cameron ran one hand through his copper-colored curls and turned to me.

  I folded my hands behind my back, standing up as tall as I could and thanking God for Dan Kessler. There was something I never thought I’d have cause to do. Specifically, at any rate.

  Cameron turned back to the door. “Obstruction of justice,” he said. “Take her down the street and have them put her in a cell.” He turned back and gave me a once-over. “A holding cell. No calls except to me.” He nodded. “When you’re ready to talk, you let them know. They’ll be able to reach me anytime.”

  He walked back to his desk and watched the commander cross to me. “Make sure Mr. Kessler knows where Miss Clarke is headed. Just in case he has any half-baked ideas of his own.” He nodded to me. “Smart, Miss Clarke. But I’m still smarter.”

  I walked out of the room in front of the commander.

  We’d have to see about that.

  Holding cells are gross on an average day.

  On a Sunday morning? Downright disgusting.

  Twenty-six people crammed into a twelve-by-twelve space that reeked of cheap perfume, BO, and vomit. The fragrance cocktail was right up there with decomposing human, but it seemed everyone else was either still too blitzed to care or had gone nose blind to the stench. I was hoping for the latter, because then maybe I would too, if the shallow breaths didn’t make me pass out first.

  Since all my belongings were back at the capitol building, where Commander Davis assured me they’d be well looked after (pretty sure that was code for “the cyber unit is trying to crack your phone as I speak”), it took about seventy-five seconds for the deputy on duty to process me—fingerprints, mugshots, and a pat-down were completed with clipped precision.

  Davis stayed on the front side of the desk when the deputy took my arm to lead me to the little overstuffed room. She was probably thirty-five, with flawless café au lait skin, long lashes, and the kind of hips most of the women in my body combat classes abhorred carbs and killed themselves in the gym trying to get. The thick hair that cascaded halfway down her back in dark waves was flat-out unfair. She shot me a side eye as she strode down the hall half towing me. “The hell did you do to get in here on order of the state police? Selling your kid’s Adderall? Your mother’s Oxy?”

  I snorted, my hand floating to my face. “The dark circles are from work, not kids.” Apparently I had exceeded my best-by date for leaving home sans concealer. “I’m a reporter at the Telegraph.” Recently, anyway. The matter of job security was still a bit fuzzy, and low on my priority list. “They want me to tell them something I’m not willing to share.”

  She stopped. Turned to face me. “No shit? Like, some Woodward and Bernstein type stuff right here on my shift?” Her eyes flew open wide, the lashes hand-to-God brushing her bangs. I wanted to know what kind of mascara that was, but this wasn’t the time to ask for makeup advice.

  I flashed a smile. “I’m not bringing down a president anytime soon, but protecting a source is protecting a source, so . . . kind of?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “That holding cell is a bad place to be.”

  “I’ve seen more than a few. I’m not scared.” Mostly true. I wasn’t afraid of being there so much as how long they’d keep me there. Legally, seventy-two hours is the maximum in Virginia without an arraignment. But if the Telegraph’s attorneys didn’t come to the rescue, I could find myself in actual prison, depending on the judge’s view of the fourth estate and how much of a case Cameron could invent in two days.

  I wasn’t ready to think about that. Or about the fact that Dan Kessler was my current best hope for avoiding it. Lord help me.

  She shook her head and unlocked the door, still the old-school bars style, letting go of my arm and waving me inside. “I’m right outside if anything goes wrong.” She turned stern glares on a few of the folks in the crowd.

  I slid past a woman with smooshed-down big hair and smeared too-bright makeup clad in a miniskirt and a faux-fur jacket, scooting into a corner.

  She turned on one boxy knee-high boot heel and followed. “What are you doing here, Mary?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the childish backhanded insult, keeping my gaze locked on hers instead. “Being crossways with the local cops, same as anyone else here.” I put a hard edge on the words. A jailhouse brawl wasn’t on my bucket list, and a dash of bitchiness can go a long way toward avoiding physical conflict in some places.

  She reached a hand
toward a lock of hair that had escaped my hat, and I tossed my head, dodging her fingers but not breaking eye contact.

  She stepped back. Tipped her head to one side and folded her arms across her clearly braless-under-her-halter-top chest.

  Her eyes narrowed as they traveled from my hat to my wedges and back again.

  I narrowed mine right back.

  She shrugged. “Whatever. Hope you’re comfortable standing. Lucky puked on the mattress in three places, so she’s got the bed to herself today.”

  I nodded, my eyes going to the ball of spandex and sequins on the narrow cot against the lone solid wall. It seemed most of the stench was emanating from her, on closer inspection, so I picked my way around bodies both sitting and sprawled on the concrete floor until I could lean against the bars on the opposite side of the cell.

  Or not. The metal cut into my shoulder blades, sharp and unforgiving. I stood up straight, looking around at long, pale faces and hollow eyes. I’d worked the crime desk long enough to guess what better than half of these women had done to end up here, from drugs to solicitation. And then there was the one in the far opposite corner everyone else gave a wide berth to, arms around her knees, sharp chin resting on her elbow. I didn’t see or smell a reason for the space, which told me she was here for hurting someone. Maybe worse.

  I’d interviewed hundreds of criminals, some of them en route to a lethal injection at the hands of the commonwealth (one on his way to the chair, when I’d first started, even). But being in here without my credentials, without a deputy behind me . . . it was unsettling at best, and when I looked to the corner with the lone occupant, it cranked all the way to scary.

  I focused elsewhere, lacing my fingers in and out around the bar behind my back and finding a crack in the cinderblock wall behind the smelly cot to keep my eyes on.

  Lord knew I had plenty to occupy my brain.

  Roughly a truckload more information than I’d started the day with rattled around my head. It was figuring out what was true and what wasn’t and how to discern between the two that made it hard.

  Cameron was freshest in my memory. He was passionate about his job, all right—frighteningly so in some ways. But I couldn’t shake his words about Dr. Drake. They gnawed at the back of my mind no matter how I turned them. I’d talked to the man’s distraught wife. I’d talked to the governor, for that matter. They’d both told me Lakshmi was dead. So why were they telling Charlie otherwise today? I figured the governor was intent on covering his ass, but if Cameron wasn’t bluffing about Lakshmi’s father, which I’d know in a few hours . . . well. I had missed something gargantuan.